Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAT82FEEJ8MM4GNBH9PSJA

Rain stitched silver threads across Blackmoor Pier as Inspector Lysa Hart arrived, summoned by an anonymous midnight telegram without warning. The lighthouse door hung open, breathing salt and kerosene, while gulls circled silently above the darkened waterline before dawn broke. Inside, the keeper lay slumped beside the ledger, throat neatly cut, hands still clutching a brass key warm with blood. No footprints marked the wet floor, yet a single candle burned, its flame steady as held breath in sealed air. Lysa noticed the telegram pinned to a nail, addressed in her father's handwriting, dated tomorrow, signed simply, Friend again here. From the tower stairs came a faint scrape, like someone retreating, and she drew her revolver, listening hard in darkness.